Whispers in the Eaves
by Miiko Ashida
Summary: Hohenheim and Ed, trying to get along. Well, Hohenheim is, anyway. The story of two rather misspent years, and a family that is not a whole but not entirely broken. [Post series]
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: **SPOILER WARNING.** Now that that's done with, I have a few other warnings to administer, none of which need to be quite so glaring. Firstly, since I have not seen the movie, nor all of the last episode (between which this story takes place), it's safe to assume that this will be a divergence from timeline around episode 51. Second, it's going to be Hohenheim/Ed, which is incest. If you are freaked out by that, well...it's certainly your choice not to read the story, now, isn't it? Actually, it won't be getting "romantic" until much, much later, but...now you know what's coming. And, last and probably least offensive, I take quite a bit of liscence. You'll see what I mean.

And, also, if you feel the compulsion to flame, please do so in a private e-mail to me, not in the reviews. Reviews are for constructive criticism, and it's a waste of space if you flame. I myself have a rather empty mailbox and love discussions, so all your flames should be directed to me! Thank you.

* * *

Prologue

--

Sometimes in the evenings, they would go to a play. Nobody had much money these days, but to the country's credit, it made an admirable effort to keep its theatres open and reasonably priced. Hohenheim was one of the last people to afford such a trivial expense, but he found the fanciful costumes and elaborate story lines entertaining, while not enough to take his mind off the lonely way that Edward moped listlessly around the house, no doubt thinking of Alphonse. Wondering. There was so much they did not know, that they might never know.

Maybe when Edward stared off into the far right corner of the Residenztheater, he was trying to formulate exactly what had happened in his mind. Maybe he was daydreaming. Whatever it was, it absorbed his whole attention from the time they took their seats to the moment the curtain fell and the lights bloomed again, throwing the room into its gilt-and-satin glory, as much a marvel as the operas which it hosted. Hohenheim was fairly certain Edward never noticed any of it.

And when they got into the car, and he tried to make conversation regarding the struggles of the hero or the richness of the dialogue, his son was distant, replying in monotone utterances that neither hinted at agreement or displeasure.

He had long since deemed it worthless to expect or even attempt to get a thinking response.  
--  
At home, a modest apartment within walking distance of the university where Hohenheim taught physics, their days were rarely spent together. Since arriving, Edward had insisted on keeping journals of his life in Amestris. It absorbed him in a way that was worrying, but the one time Hohenheim had dared to confront him about this, telling him it was best to let go of what you couldn't change, he'd become so violently angry that he threw the book at him, raised his fists and beat on his chest until the anger became a deluge of tears. Instead of collapsing into Hohenheim's embrace as any other child might (and it could have been warm and comforting or it could have been awkward and quickly withdrawn), he simply folded against the wall and sobbed into his hands. All the while his father stood on, didn't know what to do, and felt guilty for watching anyway.

After the encounter, it had appeared best to simply leave him to his business, and so he'd stay holed up in his room for days at a time, sometimes refusing to come down to eat.  
Hohenheim was never certain, but sometimes he thought he heard crying trickling down through the ceiling of the sitting room, a painful melody of distorted notes that made him lose focus on the book in his hands, and rub his face and wonder whether it would ever be his place to ask what was wrong, what he could do. He had tried, once, and there was only the hateful whisper of, "There's nothing you can do now."

Whatever he did, there was no way under the shell that had built up in the two months since the Gate had closed them off from everything which had been their home. He felt like he was losing another son. He felt, suddenly, like he couldn't stand it. Edward's probable words almost rang in his head as though they'd been spoken aloud: "Giving us up didn't bother you when you left us and mom for dead." There was so much guilt and anger between them, so much to atone for, and neither of them was letting it be done. The black curtain of Edward's hate might always hang there, obscuring them from each other, or it might be that Hohenheim was so afraid of what might be said in return that he could not speak a word to ask forgiveness, and the chasm of silence and uncertainty between them grew to encompass all things.

If anything was to be done, it would have to be soon.

Their family was broken, but not destroyed.

And if it took getting on his knees and weeping helplessly before the cruel judgements of his son, he would do whatever was required to keep their kinship from dissolving further into a grudge.


	2. Chapter I

Chapter I

--

Hohenheim wondered if the trip through the Gate hadn't damaged part of Edward's mind, or perhaps caused insanity. There were days when he might have a break from his furious scribblings in those notebooks of his to come down and peer in on Hohenheim's research, or would pick up a paper written by one of the students his father taught to glance over it scoffingly and proclaim that all German scholars of biology were morons, but it was rare. Despite times when he showed a brilliantly concocted formula to his father, madness manifested itself in many ways; and always it was linked back to the all-pervasive obsession with returning to Amestris to find Alphonse.

At times, the boy seemed mentally deficient, displaying antisocial qualities in an almost phobic reaction to the suggestion of company, and hiding up in his room all day doing nothing but writing things that no one saw, making notes on his life that he apparently wanted for no purpose other than to have documentation that it happened. Perhaps, Hohenheim theorized, the stress was too much for him. He had adapted well enough to being cast into a strange world where nothing worked the same and the one thing he'd spent his life learning was regarded as medieval nonsense, a crackpot science. But he'd lost what appeared to be the one thing that mattered to him, and his only family was a man he'd hated since he was five years old.

It took a toll, and so Hohenheim let him try to deal with it in his own way, even if that meant shutting himself off from reality. Edward was strong; eventually he'd come around and realize that living in the past wouldn't fix it. But it was worrying that he showed no signs of waking up from his shock any time soon, and didn't even seem to want to. Even after seven months...

With a sigh, the scientist closed his book, pulling a briefcase out from underneath his desk. He couldn't afford to spend any more time speculating. There were papers to grade, if they were going to keep their home and be able to feed themselves.

Sometimes it was amazing how Edward could freeload, being at the same time so antagonistic toward his benefactor, and somehow Hohenheim still did not have the will to throw him out. They were each other's only family, as much of a stretch as that condition might be when applied to them, until Edward found a way back to Alphonse. It wouldn't be long, if what he was writing in his journals was research or anything to do with getting home. When that boy set his mind to it, he would do anything.

No, he had too much will for his mind to buckle under such circumstances. It was a certainty.  
--  
One of the things in Edward's notebooks was a set of papers containing rough sketches of his automail, and Edward presented these to Hohenheim when he found the 20th century prosthetics too limiting. It was not until his fifth time tumbling down the stairs and either collapsing to the floor, unable to get up until someone came and helped him or, far worse in his own mind, being caught at the last minute by Hohenheim and jerking angrily away, furious at being helped by the object of his loathing, that Edward finally presented them to his father. The man seemed almost surprised at being asked for help, but more than willing to give it.

It took quite some time to work out, with minimal resources and poor technology, how to construct an Amestrian piece of machinery here in Germany. On top of that, the notes were vague and employed the most base of drawing skills (Edward's own, from memory), but by studying them Hohenheim had managed to construct a model made of light metal. It was flimsy, and motion was constricted by the fact that Hohenheim was not an automail engineer and could only attach select nerves to the port without damaging Edward's circuitry in a permanent way, but it was better than nothing.

"It's no good for fighting," he reported to a sullen Edward, "but it's unlikely you'll be doing much of that anyway, unless the drapes attack you."

His sense of humor had become a thing of legend between them, particularly its awkwardness and bad semblances of wit. For such a smart man, Hohenheim found it difficult to just have a conversation with people– that wasn't any easier considering it was often his son who had an inherent detestation of him, spoke little, and was self-conscious over his missing two limbs and a sudden lack of remedy for that. Despite the painful clumsiness of their conversations, he knew that fitting Edward's improved prostheses was one of the few ways he could get him to stay around long enough to speak with him in a civilized way, and so he tried, making bad jokes or telling him solemnly how to take care of the pseudo-automail, and slipping in comments on weather that Edward did not notice or care about. When the fitting was finished, he stood up, leaving his father with a look of failure on his face. Hohenheim stopped him at the door of the room.

"It will have to be maintenanced periodically. You can probably remove and clean it yourself, if you prefer I don't do so, but I'd be willing to help, if you can't. Be sure not to–"

"Stop it. You're not Winry, and don't try to boss me around. If you wanted me to listen to you, maybe you should have been more of a father to me."

The words hurt, but Hohenheim disdained to let it show. Edward stalked off with a limp and no words of gratitude. Whatever they deserved, it wasn't this.

It sometimes seemed like only one of them was trying at all.  
--  
Five weeks later, Edward was less distant but he was meaner during his moments of attentiveness. Whenever Hohenheim attempted to talk with him about the time they'd spent apart, the boy simply reminded him that you "shouldn't live in the past," and said it was worthless to bother with mistakes you couldn't fix. Hearing his own phrasing come back to spurn him was like a shock of cold water, and that wasn't all of it. Mistakes he couldn't fix...meant that he wasn't going to be given a chance to make it up, that there was no prayer of fixing what had been broken between them.  
He knew there was nothing wrong at all with Edward's mental capacity now, but it was almost an unpleasant change. When he was quiet, it was easy to pretend that he wasn't thinking angry things. When he said them, there was no way to avoid it. Could anything be fixed without facing up to it?

Of course not, Hohenheim chided himself. Equivalent exchange: you want to repair the damage you've done, you have to suffer through the hate and injury you've caused coming back to haunt you.

Knowing that didn't lend any ease to enduring Edward's glares over dinner or the caustic remarks he made during his automail tuneups, mixed in with groans of pain. "At least Winry knew what she was doing!" he say, or "Bet you're making it hurt this much on purpose, huh, old man?" Sometimes he'd simply announce, "I wonder why you're doing this for me, anyway. After all, you've already proven you don't care.

To any of these, Hohenheim could not really defend himself. Was he even worthy of any defense? He honestly didn't know. Edward's grudge was deep and equitable, but it was so old, and he'd carried it for so long, that it wasn't really based in facts or feelings anymore, just force of habit. He couldn't not hate Hohenheim; he'd done it all his life. It made sense. It was what he saw as 'right'. Nothing would fit if he suddenly gave forgiveness to the man who might as well be the root of all evils.

Hohenheim tried to understand, for the sake of being a father, but Edward resisted. He didn't want to be loved, and he didn't want his pain to go away, because it let him play the victim. Something so perverse in its simple human character was awfully basic; Hohenheim still thought he didn't understand at all.  
--  
When Edward hit a quiet spell again, Hohenheim worried. It was unnecessary. This was natural, even comfortable if one compared it to their strained exchanges of quips and Edward's moody insults, but it was troubling nonetheless. Mornings, it was hard to catch hide nor hair of his son, and evenings, dinner was brief before Edward excused himself silently with a scrape of chair-on-wood, leaving Hohenheim to brood in the empty dining room over a cold plate of tasteless food. At night, soft sounds trickled down through the rafters again, and Hohenheim pushed down a severe feeling shame for listening to his own child suffer and not be able to comfort him out of his own weakness and fear.

Once, the sounds stopped abruptly and alarmed, he mounted the staircase to stand at the door to Edward's room, listening.

All was still, and he called softly, "Are you all right?"

Sardonic, Edward's voice drifted through the door: "Oh, yes, wonderful."

He should have been saddened or upset, but Hohenheim was relieved. When Edward spoke, he had not yet conceded to despair.  
--After that, Hohenheim would sometimes stand silent watch outside the bedroom where Edward slept, or didn't sleep. Certain nights the boy would toss and turn, blankets rustling and he oblivious that anyone was there to hear. When the sounds of a body shifting and muffled tears stopped, he would leave, not comforted but given some closure nonetheless.

In the morning, Edward gave no sign that he knew of the nighttime visitations. They ate in silence or exchanged meaningless remarks, and Edward never spoke of anything that was not mundane or a provocation. And night after night, like an obsession of his own, Hohenheim would drift upstairs from his work in the lab or papers to be graded, and listen. For something– a prayer, and admission, he didn't know what. Something that would say his son was still a person, and not a listless doll like he seemed to be, with only enough will to enact his malice and settle long-hollow grievances.

And one night, curiosity drew his hand to the doorknob, and turned it without his will. Inside, steeped in the shadows of the far end of the room, a bed's covers were bunched in the curious shape of a young man trying to curl in the imitation of a fearful child. Edward lay hunched in on himself, his face the only part of him not rigid with discomfort. Two journals were splayed open to one side of him, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He must have fallen asleep writing. By an enormous effort of self-control, he refrained from reading the notes taken down in careful handwriting onto the books' dog-eared pages.

Gently, almost with an air of reservedness, Hohenheim extracted the pencil from between hair and skin, wary of waking him. A sigh-like exhalation filled the room to saturation, and then subsided into the gentle rise and fall of Edward's chest. Bending down until his own ponytail swung mere inches from his son's countenance, Hohenheim breathed,

"Do you hate me so?"


	3. Chapter II

Chapter II

--

It felt as though an air of civility had settled over the small household. Edward's snide comments lessened in severity, and he sometimes deigned to work on his journals downstairs. Never in the study, where Hohenheim acted out his own employment, but usually across the hall. They left their doors open.

This might have been unsettling were it not for the fact that just earlier, Hohenheim had remembered Edward's birthday. It was without doubt a surprise, and Edward seemed genuinely pleased by the fatherly show of caring. At least, he had before he'd said, "I bet you just saw it in the newspapers or something," which was ridiculous because they hadn't been registered on any of the town birth date listings.

But he'd come down later, and sat in the livingroom with a favorite book– the break from those journals was a relief to Hohenheim; he'd thought the boy would die of overwork– and even tolerated it when Hohenheim took up a chair across from him. They did not speak, but Hohenheim retired to bed with "Goodnight, father" ringing in his ears.

And so the next few days were filled with a much more cheery tone than their predecessors, which might have gone unnoticed, except that in the mornings Hohenheim would make two cups of coffee, one black and one with sugar. No cream. This shared trait of theirs amused him; he'd never cared for dairy products of any kind, but had never loathed them with the utmost abhorrence Edward seemed to find room for in his plethoric record of childish druthers. The muted preference was his, and Edward, as in all other things, made his own very well known with much shouting and vowing to the evils of milk.

It often puzzled him how, if they were such perfect foils, they couldn't manage to get along. The answer was that they were _too_ different, of course, but they were also strikingly similar. Certainly, the matter was a dilemma, choosing to exhibit itself in mundane or humourous ways but always bigger than it seemed. The clash permeated everything they did, never went away.

He sometimes thought, if they could just agree on one thing, just _one_... All their problems could be solved. He knew it was impossible, but it was a something to keep hoping as they took one step forward, and when they caught their balance, two steps backward into the pit.  
--  
When they got along, he tried to convince Edward that he should come to the college and take some courses. Hohenheim thought it would help with developing a plan to get back to Amestris, if they studied this world's physics. Edward saw it as a ploy and a waste of time. They never fought about it, but Edward had a hard time holding in his impatience: it showed behind his eyes.

He had been cooped up inside too long, a prisoner of his making, and he was forgetting how live among people. It wasn't healthy, and was certainly worrying, but Hohenheim could do nothing about it. Push too hard, and whatever you're pushing will break.

They continued to live in half-tolerance, not fighting and not truly acknowledging each other's existence, but it was only a matter of time before the ill-crafted cordiality received a strain too close to what a real family might ask of one another.  
--  
At some point Hohenheim had deemed that it would behoove Edward to go outside and make an effort to integrate himself into society. At a relatively similar time, Edward had decided that he didn't give a damn about integrating into a society that he was getting out of as soon as he could. It became the newest topic of their conflicts, with Edward protesting and his father insisting.

Breakfast, once a silent affair with a carefully crafted impersonation of peace, became laced with quiet coaxing and dour objections. All the wheedling in the world, it seemed, could not dissuade Ed's quiet but steadily more adamant hermitage.

"What harm could it do? You have to leave your room some time," Hohenheim prompted, looking pointedly over his porridge at Edward, who studied the tablecloth with a frown-creased brow.

"Why should I? And what do you care, anyway?"

"A boy your age needs friends, Edward. People who he can talk to about his problems, who he can speak ill of his parents to and not fear rebuke–"

"How do you know I wouldn't just make enemies?"

"We can't know, until you've tried."

With a growl, Edward attacked his bowl in a series of vicious slurping motions. Hohenheim watched, torn between distress for his dishware and relief that Edward's appetite had become its normal self again. They continued in silence, and Hohenheim rose before his son, taking up his coat and checking his watch.

"I'd like it if you would come with me to the Saturday market. The people there are very nice, and you might find them agreeable, if you give them a chance."

There was a thick smack as Edward dropped his spoon into the bowl, practically jumping to his feet. "I told you, I don't care! Why don't you leave me alone?" he snapped, turning and running back up the stairs. Hohenheim glanced at their abandoned place settings dejectedly, feeling as though this lost battle was the outcome of all their debates to come. The better part of a sigh escaped before he turned, tugging on his coat.

"I'm going, Edward."

A door slammed upstairs.  
--Home was an empty place when he returned, Edward not to be heard or seen. It was almost alarming, the sudden absence when before it had been a matter of fighting tooth-and-nail to get the boy to even leave his room. Unable to be certain, Hohenheim traveled upstairs, hesitated a little at the door behind which was Edward's sanctuary of sorts. It would be a horrible violation of privacy for him to go inside; that he had before was of no relevance. Edward had not been awake then, and could not know, and so could not get angry. But if he was barged in on now, he'd be furious. Any headway they'd made might be destroyed.

Sometimes Hohenheim wondered why he cared so, because to Edward it meant so little. But in the moment it seemed of utmost importance that he not betray the little trust he had so painstakingly earned. Inside him, a nasty little voice argued that it didn't matter anyway; he was deluding himself, or if not, something would happen despite his efforts and they'd be back to square one.

He silenced those thoughts with the stern click of a turning doorknob, breath held tight within his chest.

No cry of outrage met his ears, nothing flew from the far side of the room to smash into the doorframe beside his head. No one was in the room. Ridiculously surreptitious, he crossed to the vacant desk, papers still scattered in disarray. Careful not to touch anything, Hohenheim glanced over the gathering of books, journals, and loose-leaf sheets. It felt immoral, looking in on something that was so defensibly private, and he almost lost his nerve, feeling the foreboding that all intruders do: any minute, Edward could come barreling through the door, face a grim mask of indignation and betrayal, and it would essentially be over. But there was a word scrawled in clumsy handwriting, and he was drawn in by it familiarity. A name he hadn't seen in a long time–

Marcoh.

It was followed by an address that looked as though it had been hurriedly scribbled. Hohenheim, glanced over all of this, and from the fact that it was the last thing written on the page, deduced that Edward must have gone to visit this Marcoh person, thinking he might be the same man. No doubt his hopes would be dashed, but if there was even the slightest chance, Edward could not afford to ignore it. Hohenheim hoped perhaps this was their key to going home, as he headed out to find his son.  
--  
He received his second surprise of the morning– the house itself. It was out of keeping with the rest of the neighborhood, but that was not what was unusual about it. It was the structure's run-down unkemptness that struck him as so strange. If this was the Dr. Marcoh they'd met in Amestris, it was highly unlikely he would live in such a shabby dwelling. With a sigh, Hohenheim knocked twice on the door– the actual knocker had come mostly off.

An elderly gentleman in a housecoat answered. He had silver hair and a narrow face, peering up curiously at his visitor. Not without some effort, Hohenheim smiled. This was almost certainly _not_ Dr. Tim Marcoh.  
"Can I help you, sir?"

"Are you Mr. Marcoh?" Hohenheim inquired, beginning less and less to think he'd find Edward here. If it was the wrong person, his son would not have stuck around very long.

"I am. And yourself?"

"My name is Hohenheim Elric. I'm looking for my son."

For a moment Marcoh's eyes widened slightly, then he frowned. "Now, see here, sir, I am not that sort of man."

Momentarily taken aback, Hohenheim coughed and adjusted his glasses. "I didn't mean to suggest–"

"A young man did come by here earlier asking some awfully funny questions, but I can assure you that he left in precisely the same condition as he arrived." After a moment of thought, he added, "That way," pointing down the street helpfully.

Not anxious to stay much longer, Hohenheim nodded curtly, thanked him and apologized for the inconvenience (and for Edward, because it was fairly certain that he'd caused some sort of unpleasantness), heading off in the indicated direction.


	4. Chapter III

Chapter III

--

As it turned out, the road led into a small park. Hohenheim wondered briefly why Edward hadn't gone home, and then remembered their row that morning. In an odd fit of wry humor, he thought to himself that at least the boy was getting out of the house, even if it was to visit strange, nervous old men (he was half glad Edward hadn't stayed, because in his experience rarely did a person act disquieted unless they were, in fact, guilty) or to run off from home. It became less humorous the longer time passed without a hint of what he was looking for.

Finally, on a bench near the park's small stream, he spotted the dark red coat and shock of contrasting blond hair that could mark Edward out from a crowd. Approaching quietly, he tried not to think of his worry and be calm. It would not do to lose his temper, or say something that made it seem as though he was placing blame.

When after a few minutes the boy was still scrawling in his notebook and had not appeared to notice he had company, Hohenheim softly cleared his throat.

Edward jumped, glaring up reproachfully. "What do you want, you old bastard?" he growled, snapping shut the notes he had been making.

"I wondered where my son had wandered off to," was the soft reply.

"How'd you find out where I went?"

"You left clues."

At this, Edward vacated his seat in favor of grabbing the front of Hohenheim's jacket. "Bastard! You went through my things! Why were you in my room?"

"Because you disappeared without saying a word," Hohenheim answered, not bothering to remove the two gloved fists clenched on his lapels. He was finding it difficult not to be testy, considering that Edward was acting so unreasonably– as though he was the one being wronged.

"That doesn't give you the right to snoop, dammit. I have private things up there. Private! Does that mean anything to you?" At the end of his sentence, Edward coughed, face still glowering up and contorted with the effort of forcing out a hazy breath.

"Might I suggest we continue this discussion back at home, where you are less likely to contract pneumonia?"

"Oh, shut up, old man!"  
"Edward, please. I am only concerned about you."

"Yeah, concerned? Bullshit!" he spat venomously, pounding one fist. "You only care about yourself, you selfish, self-important, unfeeling–"

It happened before he realized he'd done it; Hohenheim's hand snapped out, catching Edward on the cheek and knocking his head to the side, cutting off the flow of insults. There was no satisfaction, and he knew that instead of stopping the guilt that was welling up, he had only made himself more guilty, and it was all true. He didn't want it to be, but Edward had simply been saying what he saw. And he was less blind than Hohenheim would have liked to think. Less of a confused child and more of a clear-sighted young man.

"You– you hit me!" Edward's voice sounded chocked with surprise, half amazed and half infuriated.

"Edward, I'm sorry. I know you're just–"

"No. No, I'll go back. We can go back to your house and rot there together, for all I care. I try to get us home, and this is what you do. Well, fine. Fine." Gold eyes glinted up at him, a steely sort of anger radiating in them. "I'm sure _father_ knows best, after all."

Both arms swinging, he stalked back up through the park, and Hohenheim felt as though he had single-handedly shattered what was left of either of their sanities. Now he remembered, why you could never afford to lose your temper with your children. It makes them hate you– or think that you hate them.  
--  
The next week was empty of spoken words, and Edward left his room only twice, for food and water, not acknowledging his father on either occasion. Hohenheim broke from his routine of nightly visitations, and there seemed to be an almost tangible barrier between the two domains: up- and downstairs. Hohenheim ate alone, and as far as he could tell Edward rarely ate at all. Books every so often disappeared from his study, but he did not attempt to find them, nor mentioned their absence when Edward came down once for provisions.

Edward, for his part, made no provocations, although that was mainly due to his lack of verbal communications. They kept this up until the tension built to a head, and Hohenheim broke under the desperate need for human contact.

One evening he came upstairs, invading what until then had been a fairly respected section of the house which he and Edward did not share at the same time. With him he brought a plate of food, and set it down outside the door, sitting next to it. Inside, the shuffling of papers sounded dryly. A cough.

"I made...well, I'd say it's your favorite, but I'm not really sure whether you just prefer it over the other tripe I cook," Hohenheim called softly, hoping a string of curses would not be his only reply.

Thankfully, he was granted a dull snort.  
"I'm...sorry."

Breathing. Breathing was good. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He exhaled shakily. It was never comfortable talking to a solid wall, and this wall could make cutting, cruel remarks.

"You're my son. I can't let us fall apart, Edward. Please try to understand."

"So you're apologizing out of duty? I feel valued."

At least he'd said something civil; it could have been much worse. "I have...a proposition, following these lines."

The pause was heavy. "...Oh?"

"Yes. I think we should stop boycotting each other, and at least have a discussion face-to-face. Like men, and not spoilt bickering children."

"You're saying you want to come in."

"Well, yes."

"Do whatever you want. It's your house."

The too-easy victory was unnerving, but it was something to work with for the moment. Taking the opportunity, Hohenheim cracked the door open a foot or so and settled himself in the doorframe. He supposed it was less imposing than coming in and standing, or sitting down in the wrong place and getting yelled at again.

"What's that?" scoffed Edward, gesturing with one hand. "I thought you were going to actually come in."

"Wouldn't you prefer I stay out? We can make eye contact from here, after all."

"What do you want?"

"I want to apologize."

Narrowed eyes bored into his. "For what?"

"I should not have lost my temper. We'll never get along if we both continue acting like such children."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I am a child."  
"Perhaps the immaturity is solely on my part," Hohenheim offered, half-mocking.

"Hmph." Edward no more fell for the false humility than he would have for Envy impersonating his mother– both ways, a person (or, in Envy's case, "thing") was trying to be the opposite of what they were, and it was utterly transparent.

"Edward. About your visit to Mr. Marcoh," began the elder man.

"Straight to business," said Edward, face obscured by the locks of hair that hung on either side of his face.

"Yes, but this is for your benefit, too. He was not...?"

"Tim Marcoh? No, he wasn't."

"Why did you go visit him?"

With a sigh, the boy shifted in his chair. "I had a theory. That for everyone in Amestris, there is someone here who is their...mirror, if you will."

Surprised, Hohenheim blinked. "...How did you come up with this, exactly?"

"I was watching out the window, and I saw a man who I could have sworn– if I was closer, that is– looked just like colonel Mustang. He started flirting with one of the shop girls. The guy who was with him looked an awful lot like a man I used to know who was his friend."

That's it? Hohenheim wanted to say. That's the entire basis of your hypothesis? No wonder it failed. But he didn't want to say anything more that would be upsetting. "I see. But your theory was false, and so...? What's the next step?"

His question earned an ironic grin. "There isn't one. I start back from square one."

"Which is?"

"We're here, why know how but not why, and we have no clue how to get home."

"Ah." The oddest desire came over him then to pull his son into his arms and tell him it would be fine, that they would almost certainly find a way back, and soon. But for the sake of keeping what was left of his rotting body intact, he decided against it. Edward would not have been terribly comfortable with that, in any case, even if he tolerated it. But he looked so small and alone, sitting in his chair with an armada of papers gathered around him, ready to reveal something– a hint, a clue, a formula– and not giving even the slightest logical suggestion. It was unbearable, finally, and he couldn't stand to stay there in the midst of such hopelessness until he became a part of it. "I'll...I'll be downstairs if you need anything, son. Good luck."  
Edward laughed, short and choppy. "Thanks, old bastard. I'm sure that'll help me a lot."

With a sigh, Hohenheim shut the door behind him.  
--  
Later that evening, he came up to collect the tray he'd left. Removing the empty dishes, he heard a noise, and almost dropped them. Putting his ear to the door and feeling like the worst of eavesdroppers, he waited. It came again– a low, keening utterance.

"Al..."

Edward was crying.

"Al...Al, I'm sorry... It's my fault..."

This wasn't his place. It was one thing to want to share his son's grief when that grief had no name, and another entirely to listen in on mourning for someone. It wasn't right, and that was not something anyone wanted to share. He remembered nearly killing Dante when she tried to go to his side after he first fund out about Trisha. He knew that Edward would likely do much worse, and that it would make him angry at himself that someone else knew he grieved at all.

"You try too hard," he whispered to no one, a quiet conversation with the wallpaper.

Edward had always gotten the hardest knocks, and he'd made it through because he had someone he loved to help him. Alphonse was gone; what was there to lean on now? The man who had abandoned him, whom he detested. A world where he knew no one and everyone was achingly, meaninglessly familiar. It must be so hard.

Hohenheim knew better than to think he could help.


	5. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

--

Edward was moping upstairs, again, when Hohenheim came in, laden with papers to grade and thoroughly exhausted. Unsurprisingly, there had been no attempt to make dinner on the younger's part, despite Hohenheim's suggestions. It was too much to ask. The boy still rarely left this room.

Bustling around the kitchen, trying not to think about the work there was still to be done, he was surprised to find a cookbook open on the counter. Roast beef– Trisha had always made that for birthday dinners when they boys were old enough to chew solids, so it was probably the only thing Edward had recognized. A smile came to his lips. At least Edward had considered his request. Putting away the groceries he'd brought home, Hohenheim riffled through the refrigerator to see whether they had any of the right kind of meat. He wasn't much on cooking, himself, but the recipe seemed simple enough.

As it turned out, the only meat products were a few sausages of dubious age, and a small ham, nothing conducive to the hoped-for result. There would likely be no complaints that their meal was just stew, if Edward even bothered to come down and eat anyway.

He could vaguely be heard upstairs, cursing at something. Likely a broken nib on his pen, or an alchemic equation the particulars of which he couldn't remember. Detail-work must be in the genes; Hohenheim could himself remember throwing the occasional fit as a young man when his research wasn't specific enough to be recreated. It was just a journal, not worth getting upset over, but if one thing was out of place Edward would seem convinced the world was ending. As if to prove his point, a loud crash came from above. Hohenheim winced.

"We don't have money for new furniture," he reminded his son through the ceiling. A furious noise of rage was the only reply, and the silence resumed.  
--  
Dinner was a two person affair, which meant that Edward's anger wasn't as deep as it had sounded, but there was little conversation. The thoughtful look was continuing to gloss over gold eyes, and Hohenheim suspected it was pointless to ask about Edward's day.

Feeling foolish, he tried anyway. "Did you make any progress today, son?"

Attention was caught on him for a moment, with a reproachful glare and shrug. "Do I ever?"

"What are you trying to do? Maybe I can help you."

"Bet you'd love that, have me be in your debt."

The older man allowed himself a wry laugh. "Whatever I could do would no doubt scarcely pay back half of what I owe you for ruining your and your brother's childhoods."

The vicious grinding of teeth was audible. Perhaps they were getting somewhere, or perhaps Edward only wanted to talk so that he could make venomous accusations. It was something, though. "You think that's all you ruined?"

"I can only answer non-rhetorical questions, Edward," Hohenheim replied smoothly.

"You– you–!"

"What are you so upset about?"

"I can't believe how condescending you are, you prick! Why am I even talking to you? This is– argh!" The non-prosthetic fist slammed down, rattling silverware and sloshing their drinks. "You should be apologizing, not so smug! You should be begging me to forgive you! I just can't handle your arrogance!" Loudly bumping the table in his rush, Edward bolted from his seat and ran up the stairs.

Hohenheim could hardly admit to shock– this was very typical behavior for Edward, after all. A bit more vocal than usual, but nothing that wasn't said in looks. Still, the outburst was more than he had expected. It could have been a breakthrough or a setback, but there was no way of telling until morning. With a sigh, he glanced at the dinner that had lost its appeal. Tomorrow was another day. Another of the same fight.  
--  
Edward spent the rest of the evening sulking, too angry to even write in his journals. The dim moonlight drifting through the window made him restless, chased sleep away. It wasn't helped by the dull aching in his shoulder, but the pills he took for that were downstairs, in the bathroom past Hohenheim's study. He couldn't go down for a second face off, he just didn't have the energy. And the bastard would probably give him a smug look, an "I-told-you-so" in his own fashion, or maybe apologize, which would be worse because he wouldn't mean it, which would be simply insulting. Why did everything involving his father have to be such a battle? They'd probably never get along. Edward wasn't even sure he wanted to.

At some point he realized he was hungry. The soup hadn't been very filling, and he'd only had a few spoonfuls before storming off. His temper left a lot of disadvantages, and Hohenheim was probably laughing to himself right now about his stupid son's impracticality.

The kitchen was also too hard to reach without running into his father.

He tried to think of something besides the blossoming of pain in his stump and the low growling in his stomach, willed himself to imagine Al's face, but it got distorted and turned into a helmet with no one inside, and before he'd even realized that he had dozed off Edward came screaming out of a nightmare.

No reproachful order to please be more quiet came from downstairs. At least Hohenheim respected how much pain he went through. He could hardly be called understanding, though. 'Considerate' was a generous term. The old bastard wasn't interested in anybody's problems but his own.

_Why'd he take you in, then? He could have denied knowing you and thrown you out in the street!_ nagged the little voice that sounded like Edward's own but thought and spoke like a frightening combination of Al and Winry.

_Hell if I know!_ Edward thought back, and then chided himself, _I'm talking to a voice in my head. Maybe I am crazy._

There wasn't a reply, which was pleasant, but just the one thing it had said was enough to bother him sufficiently to roll back and forth, sleepless. It was well past eleven, the dim glow of streetlights seeping over the windowsill and a moon hung like a misshapen ellipse in the night sky. He was tired, but his mind wouldn't rest. The pains in his shoulder came to the forefront of his thoughts, and he removed the prosthetic, hoping the lessened pressure would do something to null the ache, but it didn't.

He bit his lip, telling himself to ignore it. One side of his face pressed into the pillow, and the other skimmed his wall. It was bare, with a desk settled up against it and a dresser with only four changes of clothes– not too many to pack, in case they had to go somewhere. Shadows crept stealthily over every surface, contorting as they bent around curves or darting away in patches of soft glowing moonlight. Edward tried to find shapes, and only ended up thinking of the pain in his shoulder.

Against common sense, he touched the stump. It still disturbed him, not to find an automail port there, but skin tucked under in a rough imitation of an amputated limb. The skin was raw tonight, and he hissed quietly in pain as his fingers brushed a particularly tender spot. There was a sort of stickiness, probably a scab, and no wonder it had hurt so much. He probably had an infection. The pills seemed a comforting option, and he could maybe sneak them upstairs without waking Hohenheim. He considered it. The stinging of air on his stump made the decision for him.  
--  
Everything was still as a catacomb, minus the scurrying of rats that would likely be in such a place. The comparison made him shudder, until he remembered he was sharing the two-story apartment only with a living companion, and no furry or deceased guests. There was no scurrying other than in his too-vivid imagination, and nothing squeaked under his feet as he blundered his way off-balance down the hall.

He flipped the next light switch he reached.

The bathroom was harder to navigate; he bumped the toilet and cursed at stubbing his toe on the counter. With a fumbling hand he opened the cabinet where the medicine was kept, groped around in the spot where it should have been, and found nothing.  
"Damn it!" he growled under his breath. The door creaked, and he spun around.

"Edward?" inquired a sleep-muddled, wary-looking Hohenheim. "Thank goodness. I thought it was an intruder."

It was almost worse to be caught snooping through your own things than someone else's, Edward thought, when the person who caught you was someone you were trying to avoid. "Where the Hell are my pills?" he demanded, wanting to clutch his shoulder but thinking better of it.

"Are you all right?"

"No! No, I'm not all right!" His tone rose quickly, when he realized there wasn't going to be an interrogation as to why he was out of bed prowling the house at such an hour. "My shoulder hurts like a bitch, I can't sleep, and you're probably going to give me a look and ask all sorts of idiotic questions before you tell me where I can get medicine to knock myself out hard enough so I don't have bad dreams!"

To Hohenheim's credit, he waited with a mild expression while all of this wound itself down, before replying in an even tone, "I won't ask you any questions, if you let me look at your shoulder and see for myself what's wrong. And as to giving you a 'look', I have no desire to get into a fight with you."

Edward watched him skeptically before assenting with a curt nod. "Fine, sure, do whatever the Hell you want, just leave me alone afterward, okay?"

Without his glasses, Hohenheim's eyes had lost some of their glint, and he looked tired. It was very late, after all. "Please sit down, Edward."

It was a rather odd request; where was there to sit? They were in a shoe box-sized bathroom. Finally, he settled on the toilet, sitting so that his shoulder faced Hohenheim, who put his face very close, squinting. He pinched the bridge of his nose once, then began gently inspecting the skin with his fingers. He finally straightened up, reaching into the cabinet and pulling down a bottle– Edward's pills– and another container. He first handed the pills to Edward, who took two for good measure, and then reached into the second bottle and scooped out some sharp-smelling cream.

"You have chaffing, but there's no infection," he explained, rubbing the lotion into the raw spots. It tingled but didn't quite hurt, so Edward bit back a nasty comment. "You might be putting the prosthetic on wrong, or–"

"What are you, a doctor?" Edward grouched, yanking his shoulder away and standing up. Hohenheim didn't back up, so there was little distance between his and Edward's faces.

"I have basic medical training, yes," he answered with a quirky expression barely the equal of a half-smile.  
"Oh, shut up! I'm going back to bed," the boy snarled, pushing past him into the hallway. At the door, he paused, feeling an expectant gaze locked onto his back. "Look," he said flatly, without turning around, "thanks. But I still hate you."

An absurd chuckle followed him back to his bedroom, taunting.

"I love you, too, son," Hohenheim informed the empty space where Edward had stood. It was so much easier to say when there was no threat of retaliation.


	6. Chapter V

Chapter V

--

With a soft groan, Edward woke to find his shoulder merely a dull ache. No noises rose from downstairs, and he suspected he was alone in the house. Wondering how long he had slept, the boy rolled over to peer through blurry eyes at his alarm clock; he had to rub his hand over his face several times to see the hands and numerals clearly, but finally was rewarded with the knowledge that it was eleven twenty or so, which explained Hohenheim's absence. Classes started at ten, so he should be back at noon for lunch, and to check up on Edward.

Edward decided that the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach which he felt at thinking of the wait until his father came home was merely a wish for it to be even longer. As he thought of how to pass the time until he found more suitable sport, namely, heckling Hohenheim, a slip of off-white paper on his bedside table caught his attention. It was Hohenheim's university stationary, the title "Professor H. Elric" etched in simple but elegantly professional lettering across the top; below was a listing of the building and number at which his father's office could be found. Underneath this, in a precise, meticulous hand, had been jotted a note, explaining to Edward why neither his prosthetics nor automail would be in the room. Glancing around, Edward noticed that this was, indeed, the case; they were neither propped against the wall nor against his bed, and did not appear to be anywhere in sight.

Hohenheim's note continued on to say that the use of prosthetics would only aggravate his chaffing worse, and he hinted at a suspicion that even had he told Edward this, the boy would have gone ahead and done it nonetheless, even if for the sole purpose of being defiant. Edward couldn't fault him that; it was annoyingly accurate. This being the probable reason who his prostheses had been moved; Hohenheim would not like to risk any further injuries, and advised Edward to think of his own health, as others would not always do it.

For being such a strict, clinically written bit of tripe, the note was surprisingly cheerful, and Edward suspected more than a trace of smugness. Score, he imagined ruefully: Hohenheim: 1, Edward: 0.

So he was confined to bed, and though able to get out and search for his automail or even the wooden limbs, he didn't want to risk an embarrassing and painful tumble down the stairs. Being found lying there, lame, face-down, and splayed out unceremoniously some forty minutes later was too much to even think about. He could almost imagine the expression on Hohenheim's face, a mixture of irony, exasperation, amusement, and anger. It'd make his ugly mug even worse, thought Edward bitterly, picking out various shapes in the shadows on his wall.

At the sound of a door opening and closing downstairs, he pretended to be asleep.

-

Leaving Edward all alone without so much as a way to get from one room to another (well, he could probably reach the bathroom) had made Hohenheim feel slightly guilty, so on the way home he stopped by the pastry shop to purchase Edward's favorite sweet roll. How his son found them tolerable the man would never understand, but Edward being quite fond of them, Hohenheim had decided it would be a suitable peace offering. An apology he would not attempt until he was certain he would at least get some sort of response.

No sounds emanated from the upstairs bedroom, so Edward must have been sulking in bed, he decided. With a quiet step, Hohenheim ascended the stairs. The door to Edward's bedroom he coaxed open with one shoulder, glancing in to see a blond head just barely poking out of the covers. He couldn't repress a smile at this; how many times had he come in on Sunday mornings to find the exact same scene, with a much younger boy, who instead of yelling, as this rendition of his son might upon being woken, would have leapt into his arms and planted a grinning kiss to his cheek? It didn't seem that long ago. And huddled as he was, nesting the blankets around himself, Edward so much recalled that tainted past that it hurt. Footsteps quiet, Hohenheim approached the bedside, gazed down at the child who so wanted to become a man that he had managed to leave behind all his youth without gaining anything in its place.

It was not the place for an apology, and too tense a moment for him to break the spell of emotion by placing the bag of sweets on the bedside table and leaving. Hohenheim was trapped, standing immobile, watching dreams pass over Edward's face and feeling guilty.

At last, he gave in to the urge to sigh and knelt next to the bed. "We should have had more time. I should have been a father to you." Slowly, a wry smile crossed his lips. "I suppose you don't really want that from me, do you? You just want to forget yo ever saw me again. But I'd like...I'd like to think there's still a chance to make right some of the wrongs."

Pressing one hand against Edward's brow, Hohenheim smoothed back the hair that clung to it, felt the slight convulsion of muscles as the boy dreamed– no doubt that it was his mother's caress, not his father's, or perhaps he was unaware of being touched at all. The thought might have, at one time, made him sad; now, he only felt the rising of guilt like bile in his throat, an uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach. Heart and conscience heavy, he set down the parcel containing his gift to Edward on the table, in place of his note from earlier (which, he observed, Edward had read) and contented himself with one last look.

It would probably be quite some time before he had the heart to study his son again.

-

Upon hearing the door creak open, Edward had been at first irritated that Hohenheim didn't leave right away when he saw that Edward was asleep, and then curious at what the man began to say.

He sounded almost plaintive, but Edward knew better than to think he would complain about the lot he had created for himself. Not daring to crack an eye to see what Hohenheim was doing, he heard only a protest of floorboards, and then Hohenheim spoke again. With greater interest, Edward noted that it was an apology, unsolicited, and for once, not simply for a row they'd had recently. At the same time, there was a note of bitterness in the quiet, baritone voice.

The last sentence took Edward by surprise, and he tried not to show it, keeping his breathing even. A gasp nearly escaped him, however, when he felt the warmth of a large hand settle on his forehead: the touch was light, almost cautious, but it shocked him. They hardly ever touched, but this gesture was so beyond any of the curt gestures shared between them in the past months, so fatherly and tender and almost loving, that Edward was shocked by it. This could not be Hohenheim; it had to be someone else. Hohenheim was cold, clinical words, or the occasional awkward brush of a hand on Edward's forearm. Hohenheim was an enemy. Hohenheim was most certainly not warm embraces on winter days, or gentle hands smoothing a bandage over a scraped knee, or that particular scent of old books or papers and must. He was not fatherly, and he was not gentle, and Edward was almost given to believe that he had actually fallen asleep and dreamed the encounter, when abruptly the hand was pulled back, and he heard a shuffling, followed by footsteps to the door and the silence.

-

When he was sure Hohenheim had gone, Edward braved a glance around the room. On the bedside table, where the note had been earlier, was a small paper bag. _Probably more medicine,_ he thought, making a face at it, but he twitched the top open anyway, and saw a cluster of white tissue paper, wrapped around two round lumps. Pulling one out inquisitively, he unwrapped it.

A small, glazed pastry fell into his lap. He blinked at it in surprise, and it did not vanish. The other lump was a similar treat, coated conversely in white powder. Certainly incredulous, but also quite hungry, he tore off a bit of the former and began to wonder why Hohenheim would bother to get him something that he not only disapproved of indulging in, but was also less inconvenienced to find an alternative in the cupboards downstairs. Although, Edward certainly wasn't complaining– merely suspicious. Still, Hohenheim didn't seem apt to poison his own son, no matter how rude and cross Edward could be.

Maybe it was a holiday he had forgotten or didn't know about.

_Or maybe,_ coaxed the inner voice which had supplied such details as Hohenheim's scent when Edward had accidentally associated the man with childhood fond memories, _you should ask_ him _about it._

He dearly wished that voice would keep its opinions to itself.

But it did not, and in fact kept pestering him until he glanced over at the clock, wondering whether Hohenheim had left yet. That might shut it up, if the possibility was gone.

Unfortunately, he had an hour-long break, and it was only forty-five minutes past noon. With a groan, Edward surveyed the room, hoping perhaps Hohenheim had seen fit to give him back the prosthetics, but he had no luck. With a great complaint from his sore shoulder, he heaved himself into a sitting position and halfway off the bed.

The floor nearly slipped out from under his foot; he was so used to moving with prostheses, he was a near total cripple without them. Still, bracing his good arm against the handrail and using it to keep himself steady when neither foot touched the floor, he half-hopped, half-crawled down the stairway, coming to a stop at the wooden floor. Here, he called out,

"Old man, you home?"

There was a scuffling noise from the kitchen, and he gleaned grim satisfaction from the start he must have given Hohenheim, but moments later the man rounded the corner, eyes wide.

Clearly flustered, Hohenheim reached out to put an arm around Edward's waist and helped him hobble over to the table, where he dropped into a chair. The discomfort of their closeness dispelled as Hohenheim took a seat of his own, Edward frowned, sensing he had the upper hand.

"You took my prosthetics _and_ my automail!" he stated accusingly.

"I did not want you to injure yourself further," Hohenheim replied. "And you should not have come down the stairs. Why didn't you just call for me?"

"Because I'm not a damn girl!" Edward's hand slapped away Hohenheim's attempted inspection of his shoulder.

"Edward," reasoned Hohenheim, "there's no comparison between that and someone who is unable to get out of–"

"As you might have noticed," snapped Edward, his pensive mood giving way to anger, "I managed to get all the way down here."

"Someone who _should not_ get out of bed," amended Hohenheim. "I'm worried about you, Edward. I think maybe the automail is not taking well."

"And whose fault would that be?"

A heavy pause permeated their exchange; Hohenheim sighed through his nose. "Edward, I want the best for you. I am doing all that I can." He suddenly did not look intimidating, or as though he was displeased with Edward: he was merely a tired, miserable man to whom life had thrown the keys to all its doors and no warning of what lay beyond. Against his own disposition, Edward felt an inclination to pat him on the shoulder– and quelled it with the image of his mother's face. If anyone was the victim, it was certainly not Hohenheim. But when he spoke again, Edward noticed once more the same weariness: "No matter how much I've hurt you, if you don't let me try to help you know you'll end up hurting yourself. If we keep working against each other, if you continue to put off all my efforts to make things easier, neither of us will get anywhere."

Scrutinizing the weathered, bearded face, Edward found no hint of a trick, no hidden meaning. He was on the verge of interjecting, to defend himself or apologize he was not quite sure, when Hohenheim spoke again.  
"I want you to see Alphonse again, and I want you to be _happy_--"

Deep in the recesses of his pent-up emotions, the pain and fury he had never found a proper outlet for, Edward was vaguely aware of something twisting inside him. But one incoherent moment later he had launched himself at Hohenheim, beating on his chest with one fist and not caring that they both lost their balance, toppled to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and furniture; he was bellowing with a cracked voice that could not be his own, _"Don't you EVER talk about Al, you hear me? Don't you EVER! DON'T YOU DARE!"_ Over and over and over he screamed this, until he had nothing left to shout with and it became a dry, hiccoughing, sobbing mantra.

Hohenheim just lay there, allowing the now-feeble punches to land wherever they would, watching as the caustic, twisted mask of fury melted away in Edward's tears. They dripped from his eyes like poison being syphoned out of a wound, landed on Hohenheim's shirt and faded into the fabric, were smeared all over Edward's red cheeks and his white knuckles. The fist was slowly unclenching itself until it fell, limp, to rest against the floor.

Over the gasping breaths of the boy atop him, who was shaking with shock, Hohenheim exhaled. "Oh, dear..."


	7. Chapter VI

Chapter VI

--

When he had regained his wits enough to ease Edward off of himself and into a chair, Hohenheim realized how much of a failure– and a fool– he had been. This was only further proof of something he had been aware of all along: that he had been given a second chance, only to squander it with blindness, which he somehow convinced himself was an improvement over his past selfishness. All this time, Edward had been waiting for him to try to make it right.

Not for an apology, or an excuse, but for an honest effort on his part to repair what he had done.

He could never do it, and no doubt his son knew that; but he should have at least tried. If he gave up at every turn where he met resistance, the natural and expected thing, he wasn't really trying. It said he didn't really care. And ever since he had been placed alone with no one to care for but the person who hated him most, he had only tried to avoid confronting a single, painful fact: if he was loathed, he had created that loathing.

The blame was not with circumstance, or with a riteous wish to protect his family. All along, he'd known that really, he was protecting himself. He hadn't wanted to see the look of repulsion in Trisha's eyes when she discovered the truth; he hadn't wanted to lose her when his love for her made him admit that there had been someone else, long before: the wellspring of his mistakes. Maybe even more than that, he hadn't wanted to stand up to the challenge of raising his sons into something more than what he had been. No, if the truth was anything, it was that the fault was all his own.

And now they were both of them paying for that.

Edward didn't say a word as Hohenhiem wiped a cotton swab over the scrape where he'd knocked his ribs against a chair leg on the way down. He didn't bother to wipe the drying tears off his face, and he bit his lip in silence.

Like a coward, Hohenheim wished he would say something, to give him another chance to try again.

He'd had far too many chances already.

That was when he decided that even if it got him nowhere, he had to tell his son the truth. He at least owed him that. No matter how much it hurt, no matter if it didn't change anything for him, it might mean the world to Edward. If he could do that– give him one small thing out of all the deceptions that he could value and know came from his father's soul– then at least they would have begun.

Somehow, he fought down the dry suffocating dread in his throat and said, "I want to tell you the truth."

Hohenheim thought he knew the boy in front of him. He was prepared to hear, 'I don't want to hear it,' or for there to be only silence. He was prepared to fight it for his chance to do the right thing; it felt like his _last_ chance.

Instead, Edward glared up at him in challenge. "I want to see if you _know_ the truth, old man."

--

Hohenheim called in sick to the university, and carried Edward (who was still small, as though he was only the child of a few years ago) into the study. He carefully laid Edward in the overstuffed chair; immediately the boy slouched down as far as possible in a complaint at being coddled. Hohenheim himself removed a wooden chair from the kitchen and seated himself upon the edge, hands clasped in front of him and brow furrowed.

Now that he was preparing to do it, it wasn't as easy as he had hoped, nor as it had seemed. But he couldn't run away again, and so he sat and thought of where to begin. There was too much Edward already knew, bits and pieces that gave a certain picture that seemed like the truth, facts without emotion. But the story itself was driven by emotions, and it couldn't be understood from only an objective view.

He supposed it all began with love, though; so there he started. "Your mother was not the only woman I ever loved," and Edward stiffened, his eyes glinting, "but I loved her by far the greatest. She was the second love of my life, and I knew she would die while I still seemed young, yet her love was more immortal than even the timeless bond I shared with Dante.

I suppose it seems unreal to you– that when you have all of time with someone, the individual moments lose their meaning. It must be hard to imagine having immortality, and having someone to share it with, but finding someone else who made you wish you could give it all up."

He coughed. It sounded pompous to his own ears, but that was the only way to put it. If not his own words, then whose?

"You know that I created an artificial divinity for my existence, but you don't know why. One lifetime has shown you more horror than ten should to any man. But I knew none of that, only the pampered and sheltered life of a scholar, and my readings told me that I could have that forever. It was an unimaginable pull. You have known it– the chance to live life the way you thought it should be. You did what you did out of love. And I...I did it only for myself."

Hohenheim's hands tightened on one another.

"Edward, the years I spent with Dante were filled with repetition. I was always in love with her, yes, but vaguely into the later times I began to realize that I only loved the idea of her as she had been. Seeing the world change, living through those changes, had distorted her; I had loved her innocence, but now she was disillusioned and cold. Her emotions had become like mine: self-serving, calculating, bored with anything but her own intellect. I did that to her, somehow. I wanted to become a different man, but I could not do it without her."

The man paused, focusing inward. The past washed over him in a wave of such strong regret and reminiscence that he looked as though he were in pain. Finally, he continued.

"One night, I told her that I wanted to stop the cycle, to stop killing so that we could live. I just wanted to die and fade away. She went into a rage, accused me of betraying her; she left me, taking all the research with her. I could have recreated it; I didn't see the point. Eternity with her had been dull; without her it would be unthinkably cold and painful.

I decided to spend what time I had left in my current body seeing the world. I never understood why I had done so little of that before, with all the time I'd had. Now I think it was because I always had some other goal, then. There was constantly something to push for, something more to be attained. I did not live life to enjoy it, but to work. At that time, it was a time to simply exist, and love the world I thought I would be leaving.

I met your mother during the second year of my travels. There was a bed-and-breakfast in Risembool, owned at that time by the Rockbell family. The proprietor's daughter, Pinako, and I became good friends. She had a girl working for her. That girl was your mother."

The faintest of smiled tugged Hohenheim's lips, and Edward looked away. Hohenehim didn't have any right to smile at the memory of the woman he'd abandoned, when all thinking about her brought to Edward was pain and regret.

"You know, if there is such a thing as love at first sight, I have felt it. The first time I saw her, I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. As it turned out, she was only twenty or so. But I was as charming as I knew how, and somehow she didn't notice the lie behind my eyes. She thought I really was a stranger stopping through town to research a book I was writing.

Pinako never told her that she knew differently."

"Maybe she should have," Edward suggested, the line of his mouth tightening.

"I have thought so, many times. But no matter how painful the ending, I would not give up those years with her. I would not give up the little time I had with you and Alphonse. I suppose, now, that I should have been prepared to explain myself, to tell her the truth. Sometimes I wonder if I really loved her as much as I thought. I should have told her. If I believed she loved me, I should have trusted her to forgive me, or at least not hate me.

Everything should have been as simple as that. But I was afraid, and I was a coward. You had just been born, and everything was _perfect_ the way it was. I couldn't stand to think that it might change. So I told myself, later. Later I would confess everything – to both of you, when you were old enough to understand."

"And then Al was born, and you just didn't have the heart to do it, right?" Edward's tone was biting and sardonic.

"If it were all as simple as that, things would be different. You know that. But it didn't happen that way. At that time, the trill of my own immortality was still wearing off, and it never occurred to me that we didn't have all the time in the world. To me, fool that I was, as long as _I_ didn't disrupt anything, it could stay as it was."

"And if you had, we'd all have been saved."

"Maybe." Hohenheim inclined his head slightly, re-folding his hands to stare at them intently. "But I never told her what I had done, and one day I discovered that I _could_ die, that I was indeed dying even as I thought I was eternal. I was rotting from the outside in, and I had a choice: to let my cycle end, as I had oh-so-nobly sworn before, or to find Dante again and complete the ritual to restore myself again. I vowed that it could not be the latter, and so I simply hid what was happening from Trisha. At the same time, I didn't want to just die. It scared me. It would scare anyone."

"But you could have done it, for mom. If you really loved her – if...only... You should have just been happy with what you'd gotten. Why does everyone always want more?" Edward's eyes were narrowed and his head angled down at his knees.

"I should have done the right thing. It was simple, and it was obviously _right_. But I didn't. And I knew that before long, she would know, and I couldn't stand for her to know all that I'd hidden from her. I kept waiting for a perfect time to tell her, and it never came, and things just got worse and worse until I realized that no matter what I said, it would seem like a lie. So, I decided to leave and save everyone the pain of what I thought would happen. I thought I would find Dante, and restore my body, and come back in time that you would hardly remember I'd been gone. But I...wasn't able to come back. And when I did, everything was just _gone_.

I should have stayed. I know that. I didn't understand, then, that whatever time you have, you have to do what you can. You have to do what you should. If you don't, you'll never have a chance to. Even though it's too late for most of the things I 'should have' done in my life, I'd like to get this one right. I should have been there for you. And I wasn't. But I still can. If you trust me, I will do whatever you need.

Now I understand everything I didn't, back then. I'm going to die, probably soon. If nothing else, I'll have done that right, but I want to prove that I really can be the person everyone needed me to be.

I loved your mother, Edward. And I love you. I want to prove that to you.

I will do _anything_."

"I don't want any more of your promises, old man. Just show me what was worth so much suffering for everyone. Show me what scared you enough to make you abandon everything you _loved_ so much."

"Of course," Hohenheim said softly, like he was giving up. "I owe you that much, at least."

Slowly, with an air of procrastination, the man undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and slid the fabric off of one shoulder. Edward inhaled sharply. Silence hung between them until Hohenheim finally said,

"Is this what you wanted to see?"


	8. Author's Note, or Why Miiko Sucks

**Author's Note:**

Okay, guys, here's the deal with Whispers.

I love this project, I really do. However, there were good reasons it came to a stop where it did. Certain things were simply not working out, both in the writing and in my life. On the other hand, things IRL have cleared up, so if I were to continue this, it would only be a matter of some rewriting. That rewriting will probably take a while, though.

I'm not as much in the fandom anymore, and sadly I couldn't finish this fic while I still was. I've also learned a lot about writing that makes this fic seem kind of badly written, to be honest, and I want to make it as good as it can be, which might be difficult to balance with my old writing style. In addition, I've seen more of the series which kind of invalidates some of the timeline/events I had planned for Whispers in the future (and in what's already happened), so untangling and reworking the plot is going to be a big pain, if that's what I choose to do. I might also just leave it semi-AU and take it where I was planning to anyway, regardless of canon. But no matter where it goes, I _don't_ want to let it just sit here unfinished. I really appreciate all of you who've read and reviewed it, and I'm _so_ glad so many people were able to get some enjoyment from it. I'd like to repay that by giving a specific date when a new chapter might be posted, but I can't make any promises just to be unable to keep them. So instead, as vague as it is, know that I am working on this and restructuring it, and sometime probably by the end of the summer (I hope) there will be a new chapter waiting, at which point this dreadful author's note will be removed. ;

What I'd really like to say is that I'm sorry for leaving all of you hanging, and I'd like to try to make it up to you by finishing this.

Thanks for reading, guys, and I'm really sorry.

Sincerely,

Miiko


End file.
